Mohammad Siddiq,

mango hawker

ohammad Siddiq takes long purposeful strides, navigating his handcart through the ebbs and flows of a commercial area. Laden with the golden bounty of ripe and juicy chaunsa mangoes on one side, the other half of his handcart accommodates a weighing scale and a cluster of polythene bags. A fellow fruit vendor, selling bananas, mirrors Siddiq’s pace, as their handcarts form a dynamic duo. The commercial area teems with people bargaining with hawkers, exploring shops and indulging in street food and sharbat, also sold by handcart vendors. Siddiq and his banana-selling colleague jostle their way to a quieter area.

Here, Siddiq unfolds an orange fabric shade, bleached by the sun, supported by slender bamboo poles at each corner of his cart. Under this humble canopy, Siddiq sets the stage for his daily enterprise.

Originating from Layyah, the main town in the Layyah district, bounded by Bhakkar and Jhang, Siddiq recounts the economic hardship that brought him to Karachi. “It was difficult to make ends meet. I used to drive a Mazda (a mini-bus) but the pay was not good,” he reminisces. The promise of better opportunities whispered through the tales of those already working here, enticed Siddiq to embark on the journey, so that he should earn a decent sum of money.

Siddiq lives with some other migrant workers. He begins his day early, participating in the auction of mangoes at the Sabzi Mandi, the wholesale vegetable and fruit market. After a modest breakfast at a local ‘hotel,’ he commences his daily trek, pushing the laden handcart towards his destination, a journey spanning approximately 15 kilometres.

“I reach here in two to three hours,” Siddiq says. Selling chaunsa mangoes, he acknowledges the extortion he faces from the municipality, lamenting, “The KMC men take away anything from Rs 100 to Rs 300 per day as bhatta.” Additionally, Siddiq pays a monthly rent of Rs 1,200 for his handcart, highlighting the complex economic dynamics that govern his modest enterprise.

Living among business colleagues in a transient arrangement, Siddiq and his peers abstain from cooking, relying instead on inexpensive roadside eateries. He estimates his daily expenses for three meals and two cups of tea to range between Rs 300 and Rs 500. The culmination of his day hinges on the successful sale of his mangoes. On good days, having emptied his handcart by evening, he retreats to rest. On less prosperous days, he lingers in the area until 10:00 pm, returning to his temporary abode long after the midnight hour.

With an air of optimism, Siddiq says that he will return to Layyah once the mango season is over. “I am not here forever,” he says brightly.

Bashiran, flag-seller

Bashiran, a robust fifty-year-old seamstress, transforms her profession annually, venturing into the upscale residential area of the city in the fortnight leading up to Pakistan’s Independence Day on August 14. Despite the weight of widowhood and her Seraiki-speaking background, speaking a not-so-perfect Urdu, she stands as a determined figure, managing her enterprise single-handedly, with five daughters and two sons relying majorly on her for their livelihood.

Positioned just off the main thoroughfare, Bashiran occupies a weathered wooden chair behind a rented table adorned with an array of patriotic paraphernalia that includes stickers of the national flag, flags for cars, flag pins, flag caps, etc. The green and white national emblem, with a crescent and star on it, is sold and purchased with pride. Overhead, a very large flag, suspended from a tree branch, lends an air of solemnity to her modest stall, nestled beneath the generous and shady canopy of the tree’s foliage. A blue barrel at her side houses a stock of larger fabric flags. A small red container on the table holds their smaller paper counterparts.

To Bashiran, the varying shades of green in her flags are of little consequence. “It’s green, after all,” she remarks with casual indifference, focusing instead on the practicality of her trade. Her foray into flag-selling has proved fruitful, a labour of love crafted at home with the help of her two younger daughters. Anticipating the onset of the “independence season,” she diligently procures fabric well in advance, reserving her expertise exclusively for the creation of fabric flags. “I don’t make any paper flags…only the fabric ones,” she clarifies, proud to be a skilled seamstress, and leaving the paper variants to other vendors.

While her three elder daughters supplement the family income through part-time domestic work, the younger siblings contribute to household chores and assist with sewing tasks. Meanwhile, her sons venture into the market peddling assorted knick-knacks, each member playing a crucial role in sustaining the family’s modest existence. Together their combined efforts ensure that they have enough to sustain themselves, covering their basic necessities and the rent for their humble abode.

Bashiran’s stall becomes the focal point in the area, not merely as a commercial venture but as a testament to her resourcefulness in the face of adversity. Her resilience intertwines with patriotism.

The writer is an author, illustrator and educator. She may be contacted at husain.rumana@gmail.com